


Babble

by sprl1199



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 17:36:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17047592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprl1199/pseuds/sprl1199
Summary: A sweet, short slice of life following an encounter with an unexpected boxer and an unfortunate right hook.





	Babble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinx_r](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinx_r/gifts).



It was raining that afternoon, and the pavement was slick. But the conditions weren't poor enough to justify what happened, not to Bunter's point of view.

“Rosterson, stop!” Lord Peter charged after the scoundrel. Bunter, a hundred yards away, stood helpless as his employer caught up with the fleeing man, swung him around, and was promptly belted in the eye by a wild right hook. Peter fell back against the alley wall and then fell, his long, slender body falling to the pavement with the grace of a banner unfurling against an unremitting sky.

Something in Bunter's chest tore at the sight, and the shout that had built up inside his throat was instead swallowed and channeled to his legs, the rush on energy so vibrant that he thought that he flew from his vantage point across the road.

Even with his speed, by the time he reached Lord Peter's side Parker and a pair of constables were already present, the latter taking Rosterson into custody and the former extending a long, muscled arm to lever his employer from the alley floor.

“Alright there, Peter?” Parker asked. “Looks as though he got you but good. Are you alright?”

“Fit as a fiddle.” Lord Peter swayed infinitesimally before catching himself against the brick wall located with convenience just behind him. “Though I'll admit he managed to ring my bell. Will you be taking him to the station?”

“Without a doubt” Parker said. “We found that document you mentioned, just where you thought it would be.” Parker's glare on Rosterson was baleful, and his constables took it as a sign to shake him as a rat terrier would its catch. “We have some questions for him even without taking his assault on you into account.”

Lord Peter scoffed. “I'd hardly characterize it as assault.” The precise, assured tones were characteristic, but as he straightened his spine he began to list to the right. Bunter caught his elbow. “Thank you, Bunter. As always, you're a jewel among men.”

“It's no trouble, sir.” Bunter unobtrusively tucked Lord Peter's arm into his own and schooled his expression as he felt a quiver in the appendage, one swiftly and ruthlessly suppressed.

“Thank you, Charles,” said Peter. “I appreciate your timing more than I believe I can adequately express.”

Parker surveyed Lord Peter's face. “Perhaps a minute earlier would have been better. I suggest you put a steak on your eye tonight, Peter, though I expect you'll have quite the shiner tomorrow regardless.”

Two hours and one denied steak later, Lord Peter was safely ensconced in his rooms, and Bunter deadbolted the door.

“Bountiful Bunter,” Lord Peter said, when Bunter entered from the kitchen, pushing himself upright to receive the compress. “Most bracing and blissful Bunter. A star among the Heavens,” he added as he caught sight of the drink in Bunter’s other hand.

“For your eye,” Bunter said, placing the compress on the body part in question. 

Lord Peter gazed upon the scotch with the liquid, quicksilver eye that remained unencumbered by the compress. “‘I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.’”

“You’re meant to drink that before spouting nonsense, sir.”

A grin slid across Lord Peter’s mobile mouth, there and gone. A hint of it seemed to linger in the raised scab that Bunter had gently blotted over the preceding hour.

“Ah, beauteous Bunter,” Lord Peter said fondly before launching into a quote. “‘Drunk? and speak parrot? and squabble, swagger and swear?’” He lifted the compress from his eye and glanced at it ruefully as he tossed it in his hand. “Not, I think, that I’ll be doing much swaggering and swearing for the next few hours.”

Bunter took the compress from Lord Peter’s hand and placed it back across his eye. “You can still speak parrot, it seems.”

Lord Peter’s hand, fine boned and chilled from the compress, alighted on Bunter’s atop the compress, as light and insubstantial as a bird. “It will take far more than a lucky right cross to silence the parrot in me, Bunter, as you well know. Brave Bunter.”

Bunter grunted and took a step away. The compress remained in place. “You’re the brave one, if foolish. What on earth were you thinking?”

Lord Peter snuck a glance up through the length of his eyelashes, long face pulled into a sheepish expression. “Ah, I must admit, I did not take Rosterson for a boxer. He wore Fosters. No self-respecting boxer would wear Fosters. Terrible traction.”

“You should have waited, my lord.”

“I did wait,” Lord Peter insisted. “And then, well, Rosterson decided not to wait himself, and I had no choice but to intervene. Parker was right behind me.”

Bunter narrowed his eyes.

“Perhaps he needed an additional minute or two to ride heroically to the rescue,” Lord Peter admitted. “But truly, Bunter, ‘tis only a flesh wound.”

Bunter stared down at him, long enough that the fey light in the grey eyes softened to something warm and uncertain. “I hate to see you hurt.”

Peter reached for Bunter’s hand, tracing his fingers along the bones of Bunter’s wrist rather than taking hold. “Poor, loyal Bunter. Burdened Bunter.”

Bunter caught the hand properly and wove their fingers together. “Not burdened,” he said, squeezing the hand as his gaze lingered on the difference in their skin tones.

“Hmm. Brotherly Bunter.”

Bunter looked up at that and caught Lord Peter’s eye with his own. Held it. “Not so brotherly,” he said, voice thick. “Not brotherly at all.”

“Ah.” Lord Peter glanced away for a tic, the faintest suggestion of a flush crossing his cheeks. “Then we must return to brave, I believe.”

Bunter leaned down and was gratified to see the flush return at his proximity. “We can,” he said, voice dropping to a rumble without his express intent, “although I'd be much obliged to you if you'd retire for the evening.” The unvoiced ‘sir’ drifted between them with the visibility of a signal flare.

Lord Peter smiled, the shape of his mouth softening to the rarely seen shape that Bunter treasured. “I suppose I can oblige you. Brave, beautiful Bunter.”

Bunter pulled his eyebrow down in a mock scowl even as he felt his lips pull into a grin. “Stop talking nonsense, Peter.”

Lord Peter caught his hand. The chill of the compress had alleviated until all Bunter could feel was heat emanating from the graceful digits. “Not nonsense.”

Bunter used his grip to lever Peter to his feet, relishing the feel of his slender frame against his own. “Babbling then.”

“That's an accurate enough assessment, I suppose.” Despite the asymmetrical cast of his face precipitated by the swollen eye, Bunter recognized the expression, one hesitant but warm, rarely seen but infinitely treasured.

Bunter felt his answering expression move across his face like a besieging army, as uncontrollable as a storm. He leaned in to Peter, entirely unable to stop himself and unwilling to make the attempt. “You always babble, but I can't say as I mind all that much.”

Lord Peter wrapped his arms around Bunter's shoulders. “As I said. Beautiful Bunter. Beloved.”

Bunter kissed him then.


End file.
